


Season 3 Episode 1

by Jen_814



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27189052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jen_814/pseuds/Jen_814
Summary: A hypothetical 'next episode' after the end of season 2.
Relationships: Ivy Lynn/Derek Wills, Julia Houston/Michael Swift, Karen Cartwright/Jimmy Collins
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Season 3 Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [felix814](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix814/gifts).



“Cushions.”

“Cushions?”

“Yes. And maybe a blanket?”

Ivy smiled winningly up at Derek, who looked mostly blank, but a little confused. She’d been slowly colonising his flat over the past two weeks, and Derek’s bachelor pad was now an odd mixture of monochrome minimalism and feminine abundance, with Ivy’s pink toaster on the slate counter and a string of fairy lights twinkling from the hall. The couch was next - it was hard and uncomfortable and depressingly grey. Ivy was a woman, and she was pregnant and damnit she lived here too now.

Derek wordlessly acquiesced, and Ivy pushed the laptop aside to curl into him further. They were in bed (complete with new floral duvet) and she was online shopping while he read on his kindle. Derek wrapped his arm around Ivy to rest his hand on her stomach, and he stroked her belly in slow circles. She thought of the tiny protuberance growing inside her, and felt a rush of contentment. This baby was going to be so very loved.

“I’m going to tell them tomorrow,” she murmured. “Tom’s coming in, we’re having lunch.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy for you.”

“Yes,” she smiled, and placed her own hand on top of Derek’s, still resting on her stomach. It wasn’t noticeably bigger, unlike her breasts which were now threatening to overflow the top of her nightgown. She looked up hopefully at Derek to see if he’d noticed - but his attention was drawn by the kindle. He hadn’t felt like sex in a while. Ivy understood, but missed its absence.

“How was your day?” she said, looking up at him.

“Oh, fine.” said Derek, still reading.

“What did you get up to?” she continued doggedly.

“Nothing much,” he replied, kindly but with finality.

“Alright.” Ivy stretched, and rolled over to rest on her other side, as Derek continued reading. She hoped he wouldn’t want to stay up much later. He’d been taking to napping recently, as though a lack of work schedule had thrown off all normal patterns of behaviour. She’d caught him the other day having cereal for dinner - when she’d asked about it, he shrugged unashamedly and offered her a bowl. Derek needed to work this out for himself, Ivy knew, but it hurt her to see him so listless.

She plumped her pillow and turned off her bedside lamp. After a moment, she heard Derek put aside his kindle and follow suit. He loosely pulled an arm over her, and she drifted to sleep to the sound of his breathing.

\--

Karen sat in the plastic chair in the noisy waiting room and wondered if the flowers were too much. There were five other families in the room, and none of them had brought flowers. They probably hadn’t thought of it.

She leaned back in her seat and thought about the rest of the week. There were five performances, then the interview on Thursday. She was meeting up with some of her friends for brunch on Sunday, and then calling her parents. Her life over the past few months had been fine, good even - it had been busy with work and press and making new friends. But between Hit List and their burgeoning romance, Jimmy had felt like an anchor in her life, and she had missed him. She needed to get him back, and then things would be perfect.

Karen liked Sam a lot - he had been the first person in Bombshell to be nice to her - but he wasn’t as good in Hit List as Jimmy had been. Jimmy had this way of looking at her, of singing to her that expressed this raw passion and longing. Karen could feed off that, she could reflect it towards her themes of celebrity and drama, and it heightened the whole performance. Sam, she thought, just wasn’t as good at acting. Jimmy would make it better.

She missed Derek, too. They were friends - she was sure of it, that they were past his crush, and their brief interrupted attempt at coupling. But when she’d met up with him, he’d been quiet, withdrawn - and she hadn’t been able to make him feel better. Jimmy and Derek - they were the men who consistently made her feel good about herself, and they were both gone. At least now, she was getting one of them back.

There was movement towards the end of the hall, a warden came out and started ticking names off his list. Karen stood, flowers in hand, and looked for Jimmy.

\--

“Yes! Yes yes _yes! _”__

____

__

Tom paced around the room, his chair no longer able to contain a body with so much joy.

“I’d be delighted, it would be such an honour - Friday? Yes, let’s talk details then.”

He waited, listening intently to the person on the other side of the phone.

“Sounds great. See you soon!”

He hung up the phone, tossed it on the couch and almost leapt towards the piano. He raised his hands with a flourish before launching into a well-loved score.

“You are some gumshoe  
You just don’t think well  
Get this, dumb gumshoe,” he sang, closing his eyes and revelling in the glory.

“You’re nothing without meeeee!” he finished on a high.

City of Angels. It was the dream - he’d had it, then lost it and now it was back; there was funding and they wanted him and he was going to direct - a whole musical entirely in his vision. He breathed deep and tried to hold on to the images flicking through his mind - a set all in black, a bifurcated stage, spotlights on the ceiling - but they were too many and too ephemeral and he had time for this - he had all the time, it was his musical. He was directing a musical. He, Tom Levitt, was directing City of Angels.

He giggled suddenly, uncontrollably. This was a _good day _.__

\--

She had wanted this for years. Thinking of him had become a habit, a little frisson of danger and excitement - fantasising about his arms and his voice, as she sat through a friend’s terrible new play, or grocery shopped for a family who only wanted to eat hamburgers. She had lain in bed listening to Frank brush his teeth and talk about his day, and she had imagined being with this man. 

And now, she was.

After Julia knocked on the door, Michael had invited her in and they had spent the next three days in bed. Julia had cancelled her meetings and Michael had called in sick, and they had talked and laughed and made love and thought of nothing else beyond the confines of the bed.

She felt… sated. Her body was tired from the activities of last night (there had been a lot of sex, and Julia was not twenty anymore), and she felt herself glowing with the glory of it all. Michael was funny and sexy and smart, and he thought that _she _was funny and sexy and smart - and consequently, she became so. It’s like a form of alchemy, she mused absently, I was dowdy divorcee, then Michael touched me and I turned into goddess. Science joke, she thought, I must tell Frank.__

____

____

_Frank_. She couldn’t understand why she still thought of him so much. They had been separated for close to a year, and they’d been distant for longer. But - he was in her head, persistently and indelibly. She thought about him when she did her hair (he always liked it up, the better to kiss her neck), when she rode on the subway (this morning, the man next to her had a hat just like his) and whenever she drank coffee (his vast and overwhelming obsession). She knew his opinions about pretty much anything she could think of, and she could hear them, unbidden. She’d moved out of their home, she’d written a musical, won a Tony award and slept with the man of her _literal dreams_ \- and none of that could quite erase that voice. 

_____ _

_____ _

“Morning, gorgeous,” Michael said, in that thick and lazy way of his, as he wrapped his arm around her naked body.

Michael was here, he wanted her and she could be happy with him.

“Morning” Julia murmured, and reached her hand around to stroke his thigh. She had ruined so many things, but she would make this work.

She lay in the arms of her lover, and thought of her husband.

\--

Sam was in line at Starbucks when it happened again. The whispers, the pointing, _“is that the guy in...?”_

____

____

He turned towards the whispers and smiled, provoking another outburst. Hit List had been going well, and he’d been featured in recent reviews and some of the promotional materials. Jimmy had been great in the role of Jesse - Sam knew this - but no one had seemed particularly disappointed by the replacement. The new director appreciated his experience and familiarity with a large production, the crew liked that he was modest and even-tempered, and critics praised his voice, dancing - and, well, the fact that he’s black.

He ordered and paid for his coffee while wondering how much longer he’d have this gig for. Jimmy was getting out of prison soon, and knowing his territorial nature (around the play and Karen) Sam couldn’t imagine that Jimmy would want much of a hiatus before launching back into the leading man role.

Despite himself, Sam struggled to care too much. He admired Hit List for its innovation and dance potential, but the best songs were taken by the female lead and his part - well, Jesse was a little underwhelming. Besides being hopelessly in love, the guy didn’t have much of a personality.

And, there was Karen.

Sam strolled back through New York City’s teeming streets, drinking his coffee and thinking of his pretty co-star. She had a beautiful voice - he’d admired it first in Bombshell - and it fit the quality and timbre of the Hit List songs almost preternaturally well. But, sometimes it was a little hard to believe that her Tony award nomination - had been for _acting _.__

____

____

\--

The seats in the theatre’s auditorium were not actually that comfy, Ivy decided, as she lounged back in her seat and waited for Tom to arrive. Both pressed for time, they’d decided on a quick, informal lunch in Bombshell’s empty auditorium, before Tom would talk to JFK’s new understudy, and Ivy would run steps with the ensemble. On request, she’d picked up a tuna on rye for Tom, and had a falafel and hummus for herself. Recently, cheese had been making her nauseous, which unfortunately ruled out a lot of sandwich options.

She was just about to text Tom, when walked into the auditorium. Spotting her easily among the empty seats, he greeted her with his usual extravagance, and thanked her for the sandwich. He seemed happy, she thought. Almost manic.

“I have news for you,” she started, feeling unexpectedly nervous.

“Me too! But - you go first,” he said, staccatoing his words with flecks of flying tuna. “Oops, sorry Ivy.”

She swallowed a bite of falafel, and smiled at Tom.

“I’m pregnant.”

“No - really?” Tom’s face went from joy to shock to bafflement, as his gaze sunk to her stomach.

Ivy breathed in, self-conscious, and tried to subtly straighten her torso.

“Fifteen weeks now,” she said, adding “that’s a little under four months,” as she saw him mentally working the calculations.

“Derek’s?” he asked.

“Who else?”

“Someone tall, dark and handsome.”

“Derek is tall, dark and handsome.”

“Okay - someone less tall, dark or handsome _but _nicer, more respectful and better informed on consent?”__

____

____

“I don’t mind a work in progress”

“But so much progress?”

“Enough!” she laughed, mostly with humour and only a little chagrin. “He’s not perfect, but neither am I - and we’re happy. About the _baby _.” She stressed, noticing that they’d strayed slightly off topic.__

____

____

“Another Ivy Lynn,” he smiled at her. The fact that it could also be another Derek Wills floated, unarticulated in the air.

“Well,” she said, feeling a little underwhelmed. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“Of course, yes - very happy for you.” he said quickly. “It’s just - the baby thing, I’m not so familiar...”

“Me neither, but I’ve been read-

“...And it’s such a shame about Marilyn.”

Ivy felt a drop in her stomach.

“I mean, you’ve worked so hard, and you’ve been so brilliant!” Tom smiled, clearly thinking that he was being supportive. “At least you got your Tony before this happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Ivy felt her voice sounding a little distant, and tried to inject more warmth into it. “What do you mean - a shame about Marilyn?”

“Well,” said Tom, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing around the words. “It’s such an energetic part, you won’t want to be dancing so much and so vigorously, right?” He swallowed, continuing, “And the hours are so punishing, and the clothes so form-fitting - you’ll have to stop the nudity part in the JFK scene - and I think we’d need additional insurance to allow our ensemble to do all of your lifts.”

He caught the look on Ivy’s face and rapidly resumed, “But don’t worry, Jessica’s great, and after a couple weeks of training she’ll be fine as Marilyn.” He looked at her, suddenly worried. “You can keep going for about two more weeks, right?”

The words were coming through to Ivy’s head in an odd way, it was like they were swimming there through a swamp. She took a breath, and reminded herself that Tom was new at directing, and very uninformed about childbearing.

“I think,” she said, trying to communicate resolve with her usual sweetness. “That I’ll manage for more than two weeks.”

“Oh great fine, we can work that out. We’ll miss you terribly - will have to do something special for your final performance as Marilyn. Is Derek going to go back to directing? Or, I suppose he could teach - while you’re taking a break from acting. The Broadway schedule, it’s a punishing life, even without a baby.”

“That…” Ivy started, without much of an idea how to follow through. “I mean, I haven’t yet -”

“Again, can talk about this later.” Tom grinned. “I’m happy for you, Ivy - I’m really happy that you’ve been getting all this recognition. You’ll definitely be leaving on a high!”

There was everything to say to that, but nothing came out of her mouth.

“So - you’ll never guess what news I heard today!” Tom beamed.

\--

The evenings were the hardest, when Ivy wasn’t around. It wasn’t just the distraction; she was busy, and more tired these days - they’d often spend hours not talking, doing their own thing but being together. She gave off a warmth, almost a glow - it was imperceptible, except that he missed it when she had gone. Derek had lived in his apartment for six years, and it felt more like home now than it ever had before.

He wandered through to the kitchen area, and filled up the kettle from the tap. He was home a lot now, almost constantly. He’d found one of those lists that tells you all the books you should read before you die, and he’d been ticking them off one by one. He liked reading - at university he’d studied literature - but he’d never had time for it before. Now, he did.

All those _women_. It hadn’t seemed to matter, the exact way in which he’d met them. He was handsome and British and women liked him. He could have left work, gone to a bar and hooked up, but he could also have _stayed_ at work and hooked up, so why add the extra step? Everyone he’d been with… they’d wanted him. Irrespective of his position, they’d wanted him. It didn’t matter how they’d met, it _didn’t_.

Derek groaned audibly and put his hand to his head as if to ward off the thoughts. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it - at least, a part of him believed that he was innocent, but too many other parts of him (the more honest, more introspective ones) knew that he’d been wrong. He flinched physically when he thought about that night when he’d called Karen over, when she rushed over in sweats because she thought that he had some acting notes for her, and how hurt she’d looked at his blunt advances.

But honestly though, was that his fault? Could he possibly be blamed for her overwhelming naivety? He’d booty-called lots of women before, he’d thought his intention was obvious. If he were to call a woman up and say “I’d like you to come over for an hour of sex, after which you’re welcome to sleep next to me as long as you leave before breakfast” they’d call him a pig. And yet, so many women were perfectly happy to do it.

 _Enough_. Derek put his hands over his ears to drown out the voices and laid his head on the counter. He knew this back and forth was pointless, he knew he needed to stop but he _couldn’t_. He wished he could work, immerse himself in a new project - but he was the regrettable focus of a sexual harassment investigation and no one wanted him. Even his newly won Tony award wasn’t helping - the word was out, Derek Wills was finished. Broadway was a small town, and they’d exiled him.

Derek straightened and tipped the kettle over his mug, the faint smell of camomile wafting up towards him through the steam. He had Ivy and the baby, and he was grateful for that. He would make it be enough.

\--

“So, this is what it feels like to have a break-up conversation.”

Tom smiled falteringly, watching Julia closely.

“I’ve never had one before, but now I understand why I avoided them,” he continued.

Julia smiled weakly, and made to speak, but then closed her mouth again.

“Am I making this more awkward?” Tom joked uneasily, “I thought that mentioning the elephant would diffuse the tension, but - have I made everything worse?”

Julia reached over and placed her hand on Tom’s. She looked tired but kindly.

“I love you”, she said. Tom seemed startled at the non-sequitur, and she resumed, “I feel awkward because I care about what you think of me, and I’m worried about disappointing you. But it’s all based on love.”

Tom rubbed his thumb over Julia’s hand, still placed on top of his.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he said, feeling his way with a care unusual to him. “This break up - it’s just professional. You’re still my best friend.”

Julia smiled then, something deep and sincere. “And you’re mine.”

She breathed out, suddenly aware of how nervous she’d been about this conversation. She took her hand back, and sipped her coffee.

“And I can’t wait”, she smiled, “to see what you do next.”

Tom immediately glowed, and Julia felt a little tug of pain. She knew that look, and she knew that he had a new project. She’d seen that with every one of their productions, and she felt sad to be on the outside of this one.

“Tell me,” she said. “What’s gotten you looking so happy?”

Tom looked sheepish. “City of Angels”, he said, trying very hard to hide his glow. “The funding came in, and they still want me to direct.”

She nodded, keeping the smile on her face.

“And you - you’re still doing Gatsby? The play?” He asked, valiantly attempting a grin.

“Yes,” Julia said. “With Peter.”

“Ah”, said Tom, and his smile now looked quite a bit more forced. “I hope you have fun with that.”

“This break-up”, she said, with an odd note in her voice. “It’s not permanent, right? We’re taking a break because of the timing - it suits us both to be working on different projects right now.”

Tom nodded and smiled sadly. “Trial separation,” he said. “It’ll pass.”

They didn’t speak much more; Julia told Tom about Leo’s latest driving test, and Tom recommended a new sushi bar in Tribeca. They said their goodbyes with a good deal of warmth, but without making plans to meet up again. Some things took time.

\--

Jimmy had imagined that he’d dream of Karen, or Kyle - or even Hit List, his incalcitrant outburst of loss, yearning and adoration for music that had sustained him through his teens, when he thought that life was all dark, all the time and that he’d never be a part of something better. And then he met Kyle, and learned about kindness, and then he’d met Karen and learned about love.

She was pure and beautiful in a way that still left him breathless. He felt better, _worthier_ , for being someone that she could love. But he didn’t dream about her.

He dreamt of broadway. He’d laid in his bunk in his prison cell, with the flaking ceiling close enough to touch, the sounds and snores of the other inmates all around - and he heard music. He’d work out or stand with his friends in the yard, and his thoughts all turned to song lyrics. He hadn’t liked prison, but he’d carried this internal world with him, and it felt like hope.

And now - he was back. He’d left his old flat with the memories of Kyle, and he was staying with Karen, as they tiptoed around the possibility that this could be permanent.

He watched her making dinner, singing softly to herself, and he felt again that irresistible pull towards her. She was goodness and purity and light and he had no idea how to tell her - he couldn’t bear to hurt her - but he didn’t want to be in Hit List any more. Prison had given him time to think, time to create - and he had other plans now.

\--

It would be so much better, Eileen mused, if art galleries served wine. Not that this wasn’t nice, she conceded, as she casually glanced over a Turner - but the experience could definitely be enhanced with a robust red.

The trip had been Katie’s idea, a mother-daughter getaway to celebrate (or commiserate) the divorce finalisation - but Eileen had been the one to choose London. 

The start of the separation proceedings two years ago had filled Eileen with a righteous, productive anger that influenced her production plans and fuelled the financing of Bombshell. A less distraught, a less emotionally conflicted Eileen would never have burned a pile of money in a bar, and alienated future donors in such a flamboyant way. She didn’t regret anything that she’d done (she did not believe in regrets) but looking back, she recognised how aggrieved she’d been, how lost.

The end of her divorce felt different. Her anger was all burned out, and she felt tired. A little sad. She didn’t miss Jerry - she hadn’t for a long time - but they had built so many beautiful things together, and the memory of these kept her wistful. She suddenly realised that her daughter was trying to get her attention. Katie was the most wonderful thing, she thought, that Jerry and I ever created - by far.

“Do you want to spend much longer here?” said Katie, her voice low and sweet in the muted quiet of the gallery room. “I could go for a coffee.”

As long as mine’s Irish, Eileen thought, and followed her daughter out of the front doors.

Trafalgar square was quiet, the grey skies and mist had dampened the enthusiasm of the usually perennial buskers. It was raining slightly, a chilling drizzle that flecked Eileen’s coat and threatened to ruin her makeup. Yes, she thought, as she made her way down the steps with her daughter, I was right to choose London.

\--

“Leaving - he said that, he actually said it - I’d be _leaving on a high_.”

Ivy stormed around the kitchen area, jacket half-on, half-off because she’d started shouting the moment she got in the door, and her rage had obfuscated her ability to unclothe properly.

“And the way he said it - so perky - as though this was it; I’ve done the broadway thing, and now I just change my costume and step into the Mother role. For _ever_.”

Derek looked startled and sympathetic and offered Ivy tea.

“No, I don’t want any of that thanks -” He’d been offering tea a lot recently, Ivy suspected that he’d read about it in a book for Supporting Your Pregnant Girlfriend - but she didn’t like the stuff and wished he’d stop asking.

“I want _alcohol_ ”, she moaned, resting her elbows on the counter and her head in her hands. “And a friend and director who isn’t looking for the first opportunity to pack me off to diaperland.”

“He said a break,” Derek said mildly. “He might just have meant maternity leave.”

Ivy shook her head, thinking back hard over their conversation. “But he was talking about my final performance; about how I couldn’t look after a baby and be on Broadway.”

“Well,” said Derek. “That’s ridiculous. You’ll be out working, and I’ll be looking after little Susan. Or Steven.”

She looked at him. They’d discussed these names, and he knew her thoughts.

“Or whatever we go with.” Derek smiled. “You’re a name now, you’ll find another part.”

“I don’t -” Ivy looked at him, exasperated. “I don’t want another part. I like my job and I want to keep it. I appreciate,” she said, gesticulating incoherently, “that I’ll need to take some time off, but can they really give Marilyn away to someone else?”

She breathed hard, then focused in on Derek.

“You’re a director,” she said intently. “What would you have done, in Tom’s place? This must,” she said, thinking of his long career in theatre, “have happened to you before.”

He winced, and she felt a flash of apprehension.

“There have,” he started slowly, “been times when women in my productions had become pregnant.” He looked at her regretfully. “They mostly dropped out, and were replaced.”

Ivy felt suddenly drained, and she put a hand out against the counter for support.

“Particularly in musicals,” he continued, “where there’s more physical strain, and the insurance costs are higher. It can take a lot of time,” he said sadly, watching Ivy closely, “for new mothers to manage a Broadway schedule. It can be punishing.” He said, unknowingly echoing Tom.

Ivy sank into one of the stools at the counter. She thought of Bombshell, with its incessant dance numbers, being lifted and carried all over the stage. Ivy had acting friends with babies - a few - but they’d been part of the ensemble, and, well, they had been replaced. When - if - they went back to acting, she couldn’t think of a single instance where they’d gone back to the same exact part.

She felt a pressure on her shoulder and looked up to see Derek, who had pulled up the stool next to her, and placed his arm around her.

“You’re pregnant,” he said, with a glimmer at humour. “And it’s going to affect your ability to be Marilyn for a while. But if it’s what you what -” he pressed a kiss on the side of her template, “we’ll talk to Tom, and Eileen - and find a way to make it work.”

“It won’t work if they don’t want me,” she said thickly.

“You’re Ivy Lynn.” Derek cupped her face with his hand, and turned it gently towards him. “How could they not?” 

\--

“You want to leave… Hit List?”

Karen couldn't believe it, she couldn’t understand. Hit List was theirs, it was their history, their love story. Jimmy couldn’t just _leave_.

“I’ll always love Hit List,” Jimmy said carefully, his handsome face creased in consternation. “Always. But I don’t love performing -” he faltered, looking at her expression. “Not the way that you love it.”

Karen sat back in her chair and imagined what her face looked like, a stupid ‘O’ of surprise. When had this happened - was it a prison thing? Why hadn’t he said anything before? Unwillingly, her mind replayed the moments where she could have guessed; Jimmy’s anger at being overheard while he played the piano, his refusal to perform in front of her, or her friends. Even when Hit List was up and running, he had wanted someone else for the male lead, but time was short and Derek talked him into it. _I should have known_ , a voice said, but she batted it away. No, she thought, he should have told her. 

“I thought you were happy,” she said, hating how insecure her voice sounded.

“I was!” Jimmy made to stand up, as thought to emphasise his point, but then remembered that they were still having dinner, and stayed sitting.

“I was happy,” he said in a quieter voice. “I loved working with you, you made it worthwhile.”

“But I don’t now?!” Karen asked, her voice laced with anger as the insult hit her.

Jimmy looked panicked. “No, I don’t mean that - I don’t mean that at _all_.”

He left his chair and moved over to her side of the table, taking her hands in his. She let him, reluctantly.

“I wouldn’t have been in Hit List for anyone but you”, he said, as though calming a feral kitten. “But I’m a composer, and I want to write songs. That’s… all I want to do. Make a musical.”

Karen looked at his face, which was pale and nervous, but still so very handsome. She’d never been attracted to anyone as much as him. He made her feel adored, and she liked that too.

“Okay”, she said. “I get it.” She smiled and kissed him. He kissed back hard, relieved.

“I can help”, she smiled, as Jimmy went back to his chair to resume eating the cooling spaghetti. “I could be your muse.”

She imagined days of Jimmy working from the flat, her hand guiding him, singing his verses and testing his lyrics. She would like that, maybe she could even star in this one too. Why not? It had worked before.

Something crossed across Jimmy’s face, and he looked nervous again.

“Well,” he said, dropping his fork again and looking earnestly into her eyes. “I have an idea already and it’s quite specific - um, well.”

He looked embarrassed for a moment, then happy.

“I want to write a musical set in prison. With an all male cast.”

Karen picked up her glass and took a deep slug of wine. That, she thought, was not what she had in mind.

\--

Broadway was a chess board. Jerry moved his pieces, and the rest of the world moved theirs. Between influence, funding and direct producing, Jerry estimated that he had stake in about a third of Broadway's current productions. Not bad, but not enough.

He still harboured a bitterness about being summarily ousted from Bombshell - by _Eileen_ no less. Hit List had won more Tony awards (he reminded himself of this often) but Bombshell had _better_ ones.

Jerry drummed his fingers on his mahogany desk, high up over the city in his 28th floor office. Next time, he thought, he’d back the winner.

Not that he was unhappy with Hit List. The shock of the award-winning composer/male lead going to jail had actually boosted sales; it wouldn’t have worked with another production, but Hit List was known for being edgy, and the prison sentence (dramatically reduced, following Jimmy’s new celebrity) added a exotic glamour to the show. It helped, of course, that the crime wasn’t particularly vilified and that Jimmy - for all that he irritated Jerry personally - was young, and considered a bit of a heartthrob.

Derek was another story. He had to go, with a severe (and public) condemnation from the production. Jerry didn’t care particularly about his crime - that would be hypocritical in the extreme - but he was disgusted by Derek’s obviousness, his lack of caution. He’d taken stupid risks and gotten caught, and Jerry was devoid of sympathy.

He needed to look forward. His divorce was final, and the clarity over his financial situation allowed him to resume strategic planning. He’d lost more money that he’d wanted in the divorce, but he was still Jerry Rand - he had his reputation, his millions and he had _himself_. The last of which had never let him down.

Broadway was a chess board. Jerry thought for a moment, then came to a decision and called his secretary. 

“Patch me through to Lyle West,” he said.

He moved his pawn.

\--

“Sam!”

He turned, beaming, to a stunning Ivy Lynn - dressed seductively in a clinging green dress, displaying an enviably narrow waist against a canyon of cleavage. He tipped his head back, and gave her a dramatically overstated once-over.

“Looking good, girl,” he said, watching her glow under the compliment.

“Right back at you, handsome,” she smiled. “I’ve just come from a lunch, the portions were so tiny! I’m having cake, join me?”

They ordered two cheesecake slices and settled in a booth in the crowded cafe. Sam felt at once the easy familiarity that always came with Ivy’s presence.

“Ask me what happened this morning,” he said, as he picked up a fork and experimentally slid it into the cheesecake.

“What?” Ivy asked, balancing a slice of cake on her own fork with a lustful expression.

“I’ve been offered the part of Jesse,” he grinned, “permanently.”

Ivy dropped her fork and beamed. She couldn’t hug him in their booth, but she squeezed his upper arm in celebration.

“That’s fantastic! They’re so damn lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” he smiled back. It was still sinking in, that in this most unstable business he had done well enough to be offered permanency, security. He had a lot of friends who’d never achieved that, and he did not underestimate its value.

“Jimmy decided to leave, and Scott said that I was a no-brainer,” he explained.

Ivy beamed her congratulations at him, and clinked her coffee cup against his in simulation of champagne glasses.

“I don’t love Hit List like I loved Mormon - or Bombshell,” he said, “but it means I can settle, catch my breath for a while. I get this on my resume for a year, and I’ve got a real shot at other leading parts.”

He gestured, in a familiar motion.

“As long as they’re black, of course.”

Ivy nodded sympathetically. They’d had so many conversations like this before - lying on the couch with a bottle of wine, bemoaning the industry’s lack of parts for women and black men. Sam always won these misery-fests - the best parts were undoubtedly for white men, but Ivy had more options than him.

“What’s new with you?” he asked, looking at Ivy and noticing again how lovely she looked today, how luminous.

Ivy hesitated, and then raised her coffee cup to Sam.

“Congratulate me too - Derek and I are having a baby.”

Sam stared at Ivy, who looked nervous and flustered but very, very happy. He slowly lifted his own cup and clinked it against hers.

“Ivy… you’re going to be a mother,” he said, thinking of his dearest friend with her incredible talent, vast ambition and her beloved career. He thought of Derek, serial seducer of women, who had slept with Ivy as her director, who had fired her and visibly lusted after someone else in front of her eyes.

Sam had known Ivy a long time, and he had never seen her look so radiant.

“You’re going to be amazing,” he said, and he meant it.

They talked about babies and broadway for the next hour, laughing and revelling in their shared excitement. Ivy told Sam about the Marilyn drama, and he immediately offered his full and unwavering support towards her cause.

They were just signalling for the cheque when Ivy turned the subject back to Jimmy.

“Why did he decide to leave?” she asked, popping the complimentary chocolate that came with her coffee in her bag. “Isn’t he still with Karen?”

“Yes, he is,” said Sam, passing Ivy his own uneaten chocolate, “but he wants to write another musical. Book too, this time. He has this idea of an all male cast, set in a men’s prison. A story of redemption.” He smiled, “I guess he’s drawing on his own experience there.”

Ivy laughed, then suddenly looked thoughtful.

“All male cast...” she said, carefully. “Does he have a director in mind?” 

\--

“It’s too gay.”

“It is _not_ too gay.”

“Yes, it is. Too. Gay.”

Julia threw a cushion at Peter, who dodged it smirking. “No it _isn’t_.” she said. “Nick Carroway is in love with Jay Gatsby and that is a hill I will die on.”

“It’s the hill that our _play_ will die on.”

“You are very ungenerous to the american population, and I am ashamed of your blatant homophobia,” said Julia, in her best disapproving voice.

“You wanted Nick to be a narrator, right?”

“Yes, but -”

“You wanted him to skulk around the corners of the set, to be the ultimate observer, yes?“

“Absolutely, but that doesn’t -”

“We discussed that he would be disinterested, a blank canvas on which the drama of the cast would be reflected and illuminated. You still agree with that?”

“Of course I -”

“Then he can’t also be violently in love with the play’s protagonist.”

Julia stopped, thinking hard. She almost started a retort, and then bit it down. She stood up and paced a few steps, before sinking back down into her chair. She dropped her head onto the table, resting on her open notebook. 

“Argh” she said in a muffled voice. “You are so annoying.”

“I know,” Peter said smugly. “But I’m also right.”

Julia reached for a cushion, but she’d already thrown all of them at him.

“Now,” Peter continued, flourishing his pen. “Let’s talk about Myrtle…”

“Argh” groaned Julia.

\--

Derek was not enjoying Pride and Prejudice. He’d managed to avoid Jane Austen up until now (an admirable feat, given the British school system’s adoration of all things Austen), and the last fifty pages had increasingly convinced him that he’d misplaced his real copy, and was instead reading a treatise on women’s bonnets and petty village gossip. He sighed and put his kindle away. Ivy was bound to have read it, he’d ask her to explain why it was good.

The bathroom door opened, and Ivy stepped out from the ensuite in a mist of steam. She had her blonde hair caught up in a towel, with another wrapped around her body. Derek chivalrously did not look at her breasts, which had grown exponentially in the last few weeks.

“So, I met up with Sam today,” Ivy said chattily, while towelling her hair in front of the mirror.

“Oh yes?”, said Derek, thinking of the handsome man starring in his erstwhile production, who had captured so well the guilelessness and naivety in Jesse’s character.

“He told me that Jimmy’s stepped down from Hit List,” Ivy continued, watching Derek closely in the mirror.

“Hm,” said Derek, who did not care very much about Jimmy.

“And that he’s writing a new musical.”

“Ah,” said Derek, thinking about making another cup of tea before bed.

“It’s a redemption story.” Ivy doggedly carried on. “Set in a male prison.”

Are we out of peppermint, Derek thought, or was there still some at the back of the cupboard?

“With an _all male cast_.”

Derek suddenly realised that Ivy was trying to communicate something. She was staring at him, very pretty and hopeful with her short towel and skin flushed pink from her bath.

“Jimmy’s writing a musical.” Derek repeated, uncomprehending. “A musical, oh - ,” he got it, suddenly. “And you think he’ll want to work with me? Ivy -” he looked at her beseechingly. “He _hates_ me.”

“He respects you,” Ivy said quickly. “And he knows how talented you are - you brought Hit List to life, he _knows_ that.”

Derek didn’t want to say it, he really didn’t. “He won’t want me because of the scandal,” he said quietly. “No production will want that.”

Ivy sat down on the bed next to him and put her hand in his. “Jimmy’s had a lot of second chances.” she said. “He’s been to prison, and he’s writing a story on redemption.”

She smelled faintly of lavender. “It could be your redemption too.” she said.

She squeezed his hand gently, then moved away towards the door. “Just something to think about.” She left the room, probably to find something to wear. Ivy’s clothes had proved far too abundant for the main bedroom’s storage, and she was keeping the bulk of her wardrobe in the spare room.

A new musical, Derek thought. A small part of him fluttered with excitement. The rest of him - the part that had dominated his personality over the last few months - felt numb. He rolled the thought around in his head, a _musical_. A musical written by _Jimmy_. Personal feelings aside, the boy had talent.

 _We could make something exceptional_ , Derek thought, and suddenly felt a little foolish. He was too old, too weary for something as dangerous as hope.

He thought about his life; the way that he hung around the flat, reading books he wasn’t interested in and waiting for Ivy to come home. He thought about the humiliation he had felt, reading all those names of all those women who told the world that he was a predator. He thought of his unborn child, and the kind of father he wanted to be. He thought of Ivy, and the kind of partner that she deserved.

God help him, he knew what his decision had to be. 

\--

Tom was sitting on his couch, trying to decide the _exact_ moment when the wallpaper had started to shake. He had been fine when he left dinner with his new producer Olivia (one martini and half a bottle of wine), perfectly temperate when he’d stopped in for drinks with friends at The Delancey (two G&Ts, and a celebratory glass of champagne), and completely dignified as he’d come home, and toasted himself with a shot or two of whisky. Or, was it four?

Tom stood, and the room readjusted itself around him. Alright, he thought, it was probably the whisky that did it.

But - he was celebrating. He was branching out fully into a whole new career path; directing Bombshell had occurred due to a dynamic sequence of events, being sought after for Angels was _purposeful_. Marilyn would be proud of me, he thought impressively, she could do many things too. It was just a matter of time, he thought as he moved towards the kitchen and spilled whisky on himself (when had he poured himself another shot?), before I too, become a sex symbol.

Tom paused for a moment, swaying slightly, as he thought of all the men that he would sleep with, when the world finally realised just how sexy he was. Then he thought of one particular man, and felt a little sad.

I shall tell him, Tom decided, I shall go and tell him that Marilyn thinks I’m sexy.

He looked around for his phone, and stared at it for a while. Phoning was… feeble. Tom was a man, he was action man, and a message of such historic importance needed to be delivered in person. That, he thought, is what Marilyn would want.

Hailing a taxi was difficult at this time of night, but he managed to find one which had just dropped off its passengers. Tom slid into the backseat, and gave the address. The taxi driver looked at him disapprovingly through the front mirror.

“If you are to throw up, you tell me first - yes?”, he said in a thick middle-eastern accent.

Tom felt a little offended, and drew himself up. He would not vomit. Then, he realised that he’d only said that in his head, and repeated it aloud for the benefit of the driver.

Once safely deposited at his destination (with the contents of his stomach intact), Tom stepped carefully towards the front door and pressed the buzzer for the flat he wanted. It was late, he knew, but this man kept theatre hours, and would be awake. He hoped.

“Hello?” the voice said out of the intercom. It was a very nice voice.

“It’s me,” Tom said. “It’s Tom Levitt and I needed to tell you - because things are going well for me. I have a new job and I’m directing and musicals are everywhere in the world”, he paused, conscious that he may be going off topic. “But the point is that I’m happy and excited about my life. Except that I’m miserable. Because Julia’s gone and Ivy’s pregnant with the devil’s baby -” he paused again. “With Derek’s baby -” he continued. “And it’s not about them, it’s not - it’s about you. Because good things are happening to me but you’re not there. And I really miss you.” He stopped. “I really, truly miss you.”

There was a long pause, and then the door released.

The intercom crackled again. “Come in”, said Sam Strickland.

\--

Typically, the realisation came about as a result of theatre.

Eileen had spent the week dutifully attending London’s usual attractions. Shopping at Liberty had left her with a silk scarf (with not much of a memory of buying it), the Dorchester’s afternoon tea passed without much impression, and she’d tuned out for most of the V&A’s new exhibition on Italian fashion. She lacked… purpose. She’d been propelled for the last two years by desire to _prove_ herself, to tell the world that she did not need Jerry to create something extraordinary. Now that she’d achieved that, her momentum suddenly seemed at bay. Bombshell didn’t need her anymore, and she felt it as a bereavement as much as a triumph.

Katie - ever sensitive to other people’s moods - didn’t press her mother, but made suggestions and planned trips in her calm, sweet way. They went to a couple plays (what was with the fashion for minimalism nowadays?), and a matinee performance of _Lion King_ (good, but very poor child actors) before accepting tickets to _Les Miserables_ , from an old friend of Eileen’s who was delighted to have her attend his production.

She leaned back into her seat, grateful for the privacy that their box allowed. Katie sat contentedly next to her, and Eileen was slightly alarmed to see that her daughter had brought _plastic wrapped sweets_ into the theatre as an evening snack. She hoped sincerely that Katie would put them away before the overture; it would be a great inconvenience to be forced to vilify her daughter.

The orchestra started tuning (Eileen kept a beady eye on Katie’s sweets), and she settled down for a few hours of genial distraction.

 _Valjean’s Soliloquy_ left her indifferent, and wondering vaguely what had happened to the candlesticks that the Petermans had given her for her wedding anniversary. _I Dreamed a Dream_ introduced a note of wistfulness into Eileen’s consciousness, as she remembered that the candlesticks had formed a part of the joint possessions that had been sold on the erstwhile couple’s behalf. Her wistfulness lapsed into true melancholy for _Who am I? The Trial_ as she reflected on who she was, without Jerry, Bombshell or anything holding her to a place or person. By the time that the two-hit punch of _Stars_ and _Do You Hear the People Sing?_ arrived, Eileen felt all the anguish and the resolve as Javert, Valjean and the Les Amis boys all searched for something bigger than themselves to believe in, sang of committing themselves to a singular guiding principle.

Eileen clapped very loudly at the interval, drawing a questioning look from her theatre companion. 

“You have a missed call,” said Katie as she turned on her mother’s phone to check the time. “From Lyle West.”

“Oh,” said Eileen, without interest. “I’ll call him back later.” She smiled at her daughter. “Could I have a mint, please?”

Eileen passed the second act in a haze of sensation, roused to fervour by Schönberg’s exquisite melodies and the performers’ skilful voices. _One Day More_ , the cast sang on stage, but Eileen had so many more days ahead of her. What would the Les Amis boys do, if they hadn’t died leaving their empty chairs and tables? What would Eileen do?

She had been feeling lost, but she realised now that she was overwhelmed in the face of her life. She had so very many choices. She could go back to Broadway and produce - she could stay in the West End and produce - she could teach (with her background, she was confident at being welcomed at most performing arts colleges), she could travel with Katie, take on volunteer work - she could stay at home and breed French Bulldogs if she wanted. She could train to be a marine biologist if she felt the inclination. Eileen had wealth, education and a reputation for excellence - she was also devoid of any dependents, partners or familial ties. She had herself and she knew what that was worth. 

What will I do next, she thought, turning the question over in her head, testing the way that it sounded, made her feel. Whatever I damn well want.

“Are you feeling alright, Mom?” asked Katie, watching Eileen’s face with trepidation as they applauded the end of the performance.

“I’m fine,” Eileen said, but she didn’t mean it. She felt _revolutionary_.

\--

Ivy was not a stupid woman. She was not a naive woman either, and she was disappointed when she realised that since learning of her pregnancy, she had been both.

She thought of how she’d been acting over the last few months, as her cinnamon tea cooled on the table next to her (she really needed to talk to Derek). She knew that pregnancy took a toll on the body, and that she was in a particularly active job, in a particularly active musical. And yet somehow, she had forgotten to apply all this to herself. Her journey with Bombshell had been so rocky, so precarious, that she’d lapsed into the habit of thinking that she’d reached the top with Marilyn, and that it was all smooth sailing from this point on. She’d also, she knew, banked on the support of her friends. Tom, of course, Julia and even Eileen were people that she was genuinely fond of, and who she considered would say the same of her. Ivy had known that she’d need to take time off to have her baby, but she hadn’t thought that she was in danger of losing Marilyn, all over again. She considered the idea of never going back to Bombshell, to never singing _Don’t Forget Me_ to a cheering audience. No, she thought, she’d earned this (more than once, in her opinion). Backing down was not an option. 

Ivy was going to fight this, but she was going to be smart about it. She needed, she knew, to explore her options, before going back to Tom and Eileen. She picked up her phone, searched through her contacts and dialled.

“Hello,” she said, feeling self-conscious of her voice cutting cleanly through the silent kitchen. “This is Ivy Lynn,” she swallowed. “And - I’d like to talk to you as my union representative.”

\--

Jimmy was working at the kitchen table when his phone started vibrating. He glanced over, and was very confused to see _Derek Wills, Calling_ flash up on the screen.

His first thought was that Derek was calling him about Hit List, but then Jimmy remembered that neither of them were working on the production anymore.

His second thought was that Derek was calling about Karen, but she wasn’t friends with him anymore, and wasn’t Derek with Ivy Lynn?

His third thought was that Derek had called him just to chat, but that would imply a friendship which had never taken place and was fantastically unlikely to ever do so.

“Hello?” he said as he picked up the phone. 

He listened for a minute, then screwed up his face in consternation. “You _what_?”

\--


End file.
